


Man's Best Friend

by Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Category: Downton Abbey, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Dogs, Feelings, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Injury Recovery, Military, Rescue Missions, Wilderness Survival, World War I, officer from the American War of Independence transferred into WW1 setting, set during season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 19:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: ...in wich Isis makes an unlikely friend among the recuperating officers, much to Robert's chagrin.





	Man's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MimiDubois_1620](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiDubois_1620/gifts).



> This story can be loosely regarded as being set before the one I first posted. The details don't match exactly, but they could be adjusted to match.
> 
> I haven't written it as a prequel, but as a stand-alone and I hope it's enjoyable. I wrote it for Mimi, who asked me to post it for more people to enjoy- I hope you will!

Having been sent to go to look for Edith to ask her if she would like to come and take tea at Granny’s that afternoon, Mary made her way to the drawing room and library, the space now inhabited by the wounded officers. When she arrived, a tableau worthy of a painter awaited her; Sybil was bent over a bed trying to feed medicine to a man whose eyes were hidden under wads of cotton and gauze while softly encouraging and praising him; Edith was there, too, distributing books, paper and pens and Cousin Isobel, the new lady of Downton in all but name, lorded over everything with her nurse’s eagle eyes.

At times, Mary thought she should make herself more useful, too, but then couldn’t see the point of it. After all she would hate to be accused of copying her younger sisters and secondly, she was hardly made for the work Sibyl was doing and could not stand most strangers enough to be around them and speak to them as Edith did. It was hard enough to tolerate most people she met in the drawing rooms of this country; she didn’t need any strangers, too.

As she was resting in the doorway, observing, for a moment, she watched as Isis walked past her- probably the only one in Downton unaware of the war. She seemed content with herself and Mary would have given everything to trade places with her father’s beloved pet. No obligations or woes, no Carlisles- Isis was to be envied.

The Labrador headed straight to the patients’ beds, sniffing here and there and curiously eyeing one or the other man with her large chocolate-brown eyes before walking on, collecting a few “good girl”-s and pats on the way.

She had always been a very sweet creature, gentle and very patient. Papa had raised her well when he had gotten her as a puppy many years ago (a Christmas gift from Granny with a large bow around her neck)- she obeyed his commands readily and she could be trusted not to bark without reason.

At last, Isis came to a halt at the bed of a man who looked frightfully pale, a fact that was accentuated by the shock of red hair on his head that fell in unruly curls onto his cushion. He was white as a bedsheet, not only because he was naturally pale and his eyebrows and lashes almost translucent, but sickly so. He was covered up to his chest with a blanket and his head positioned so the bandaged left half of his head would not be inconvenienced. His hand had somehow found a way to escape from below the blanket and hung limply in the air, almost as if he was a doll.

Isis sniffed it, then brought her head under his hand as if trying to encourage him to pet her head, and when she seemed to realise he would, could not respond, decided to lick it, trying to win his attention, which he, ill and either asleep or much further gone on the road to the eternal light, could not give her.

The Labrador’s eyes almost looked humanly sad and disappointed, but she was not discouraged so easily and proceeded to sit by his bedside, looking up at him every now and then to see if he would regale her with his attention now.

There was something very touching to this scene, something so true and pristine Mary had never and couldn’t see in any human being. She had never had any great interest in Isis, who was her father’s and always clung on to him, but she had Diamond, her horse, and knew of the companionship there could be between humans and animals.

Lost in watching Isis trying to win the affection of someone who was in no shape to give it, Mary flinched when suddenly, Isobel’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts: In a few steps, she was at Isis’ side and tugged her by the collar in an attempt to gently, but firmly, show her she was not welcome. Isis took the hint and with her head hanging low, trotted slowly to the door. As Isobel’s eyes followed the dog, Mary became aware of the fact that she might be caught staring and immediately set herself in motion to make it look as if she had just arrived to witness the scene that had presented itself to her.

Upon seeing her, Mary immediately became the addressee for Isobel’s annoyance with Isis: “I tried to talk to Cousin Robert about keeping the dog out of the patients’ rooms”, Isobel complained. “It’s unhygienic.”

“You can hardly ask that of him, too”, Edith, who had turned at the mild commotion, replied. “He has made a number of sacrifices, hasn’t he? For him to give up so much of his home- I think we should give Papa some credit, he was so reluctant to allow all of this. Surely we can be lenient when it comes to-”

“I don’t agree- do you find it not selfish to have such great houses populated with a host of servants and to not make them useful at this time? Who needs so many rooms, so much space that could well be devoted to the good of the nation?”

“Spoken like a true socialist”, Edith jested with some unease in her voice, “I was not aware you were one, I thought the only one we knew was the chauffeur.”

Sybil, who had watched the conversation unfold from afar, suddenly lowered her gaze and began tugging at a patient’s bandage most intently.

“Of course not- but you see, the dog- she was _licking_ that man’s hand!”

“And so?”, Mary countered. “You’ll find she is not poisonous. When we were little, we had a tiny little black-and-white thing- what was he called-?”

“Rollo”, Edith filled the gap in Mary’s memory.

“He would give us kisses all the time and neither of us died. For Papa’s sake, try and be kind to Isis.”

Overruled by the eldest daughter of the house, the Head of Non-Medical Welfare and Nurse Crawley’s silence on the matter, Isobel nodded, somewhat offended, doubtlessly feeling her professional opinion as a nurse was outweighed by the sensibilities of a group of people she had never been a part of before coming to Downton.

It had been nobody’s intention to offend anyone, least of all Matthew’s mother, who cared for the wounded and sick daily, probably wondering if one day, the next legless or sarin-blind man brought to Downton would be her Matthew.

-Mary certainly did.

“You see, perhaps it helps them if Isis is here”, Edith was quick to say even before Mary had formulated a sentence in her head.

“She might cheer the men up a little. She is very sweet and kind to people and not averse to strangers.”

The expression on Isobel’s face revealed that she was considering this argument to be valid, but still looked for a way out.

“Perhaps you are right. When they are conscious and wish to pet her, maybe, but this man was clearly not-”

“He’s one of the ones that worry us most”, Sybil inserted herself into the conversation in a low voice so the men around them would hopefully not hear, wiping her hands on her apron.

“He slips in and out of consciousness, is feverish, coughs blood- and one of his legs is badly broken, not to speak of his left ear- he lost it, probably through shrapnel or a blast, we don’t know if he has lost his sense of hearing on that side. Major Clarkson says if he doesn’t get better in the next few days, he won’t survive.”

Everyone wore their saddest faces looking down at the man in the bed. He was dressed in standard-issue hospital pyjamas and there was no personal item by his bedside indicating there was someone who would send him letters or cared if he lived or died. Maybe his family had received news he was missing in action and they hadn’t found him yet, or he didn’t have any at all.

How sad. Perhaps Isis had been the first living being to show him kindness in a long while and he hadn’t even been conscious to witness it.

In the following weeks, Mary, not having anything better to do really except for evading her almost-fiancé and his offers to visit her, kept an eye on Isis and the red-haired man, who had, against all odds, survived.

Sybil called it nothing short of a miracle; he had been septic and his blood so poisoned Clarkson had asked the man, not quite mentally present but there enough to understand he was at death’s door, if he should call for spiritual assistance, but the man had refused; he wanted neither the reverend nor the Catholic priest from Ripon.

With so many patients to attend to, Clarkson wished him well with that facial expression doctors thought was calm and reassuring but in reality told the patient their condition was so terrible there was nothing more the doctor could do than pretend all was well and left him to himself, to possibly die.

It sounded heartless, but with so many men to attend to, the Doctor had to make choices like this one, to abandon a hopeless case in order to save another life. Sybil said she was always sad when she couldn’t help a patient and had to watch him die, especially because of everything these men had been through- wounded in the war and now dying far away from home, from their loved ones.

The red-haired man wasn’t alone, however: one evening when the family had congregated in the drawing room and Papa had asked Sybil about her day, something Mama had forbidden him to do at the table for not all present, or so she argued, would quite like tales of amputated limbs and infected wounds with their soup, Sybil, among her usual pretty glum stories had addressed the topic of Isis.

“If you wonder where Isis is all the time, she has taken quite a liking to one of our patients.”

“Oh?”, Papa had said and furrowed his brow. It visibly stung him and he evidently viewed it as some form of betrayal that his dog should look fondly on someone who wasn’t him.

“Colonel Simcoe, he is very frail indeed. We almost lost him two days ago but against all odds, he pulled through. She likes him and gets in the way a lot, which provoked a near-diplomatic incident with Cousin Isobel once.”

Mary watched her father’s face intently: on his lips lay the obvious answer he would give to his youngest daughter and nurse, that he would take care of Isis not getting in the way any longer (which was added to in weight by the self-serving argument of jealousy that Isis should like someone who wasn’t family or more precisely, him), but with Cousin Isobel at the table as well, there was no chance he was saying so, if only to prove a point. Papa could be so stubborn if he wanted to be. It would be interesting to see how he would solve this issue.

In the end, Papa decided upon swallowing his jealousy in favour of not allowing Isobel a so-perceived victory in the running of the house and her quasi-lordship of it with the convalescence facility in it.

“Well, he is a lucky chap then, your Colonel. Isis’ heart is not easy to win. I hope he rewards her friendship in kind.”

He was grossly exaggerating, bordering on a lie: Isis sported the friendly nature of her breed and had as yet never been shy or otherwise very reserved around most people. For Papa’s sake, Mary pretended she hadn’t listened and instead turned to Granny, whose facial expression indicated she was not quite pleased with what had just been said- though she cared very likely less about Isis and more about Isobel. The two had as yet to find a way to coexist without competing against the other in a never-ending joust.

“Overthrowing the old order to grab power while her son will one day inherit- one might think she is the She-Wolf of France! One can only hope you exert enough power over her son one day to end her reign of terror.”

“Granny, I don’t think Cousin Isobel would appreciate being compared to a medieval queen who is said to have killed her husband.”

Granny looked at her disapprovingly.

“Why not? Have you ever asked about the circumstances of her husband’s death, hm? Well, at least she isn’t French, which should give us some measure of consolation I suppose.”

Knowing it was unwise to cross the Dowager Countess of Grantham, Mary let the topic drop. It was a matter between the two of them to sort out, and she would not interfere.

Instead, she found more and more excuses to show her face in the drawing room, now hospital wing, and on some occasions was lucky to find the sighting there she had looked for:

He was awake now, Colonel Pascoe or what his name was (she had forgotten), and Isis would patiently sit by his bedside and allow him to pet her, her wagging tale beating against the floor.

The most recent time she had volunteered to bring a stack of books to the men they had been gifted by opportunists ready to clear out their bookcases masquerading as kind souls doing some good in times of war, Colonel Cocoa was reading a thin volume of Latin poetry as the spine of the book indicated to her (probably something someone had cleared out of their basement, too) when Isis scuttled in and put her head down on the mattress next to his upper arm. When he, obviously not noticing her arrival instantly and lost in his book, did not respond immediately, she launched forward, holding herself up with her front legs against the bed, and nudged him with her cold, wet nose, which made him lay the book down face down on his chest in order to keep it open at the page he currently was at and let his large hand run over the delighted dog’s head and down her back.

Papa had taught Isis not to jump onto furniture and seeing the usually obedient pet so free and unhinged in her conduct puzzled Mary just as much as she liked the heart-warming scenery for its innocent sweetness.

The Colonel, wan and emaciated despite the still very statuesque and broad bone structure he kept hidden beneath the coarse woollen blanket, smiled. Nobody had ever seen him smile before, or so Edith had said- one couldn’t expect that, of course, after all he’d been through and everything, but many of the men enjoyed the more light-hearted things during their convalescence, hungry for life and happiness, whereas he kept to himself solitary and preferred the company pf books- Edith had joked that in the eighteenth century, he would have made a right proper garden hermit with his odd and reclusive and mistrusting ways.

Mary felt like an explorer waiting in the rainforest for a species of rare birds to fly by his hideout no man had ever seen before and being rewarded with the sight after trying hours of patience.

She would have guessed his age somewhat as somewhat older than Matthew; perhaps in his mid- to late thirties, but the marks war and illness had left on his body were deceiving of course. When he smiled however, he looked staggeringly younger, perhaps less than thirty even, which would be a remarkable age for so senior an officer.  

His very blue eyes shone bright in the afternoon light seeping through the windows and the kindness and gentleness in his frightfully large hands that reminded her in diameter more of the silver cloches used to carry in grand centrepieces of the meal under than ordinary hands evidently knew what they did, judging from Isis’ expression of pure bliss as he found just the right place behind her right ear.

At last, Mary turned around, placing the books on a small table close by, pretending she hadn’t watched.

Over the coming weeks, the initially bedbound man started to display a remarkable fighting-spirit: while some men far better off than he relied on the supporting arm of a nurse for much longer (though after the incident with that one housemaid Mary doubted aching bones and flesh were the reasons for some to enlist the help of the nurses), he was up and walking again, albeit with a stick, very soon and gave Clarkson and the others a terrible time keeping watch over him, as it was feared he could not be trusted to walk around alone as yet as he would do better to continue his bedrest for a while longer.

But he wouldn’t listen, as could be easily told from the times Mary saw him walking in the garden, slowly and shakily with his stick, but not even a prowling lion could have looked prouder than him.

A few times, they had crossed paths directly and she had politely acknowledged him en passant, as one does. One time, he had Isis with him, who was delighted her chosen playfellow would now rise and walk around.

She was accustomed to being left to roam the estate as she pleased and exercised this right to its full capacity now. He couldn’t go very far yet and usually stayed close to the house, so it was easy to keep an eye on him from one of the upstairs windows.

Isis, healthy and with the advantage of having four legs and not just two, would run ahead a few paces, then wait and turn to see where her friend was, return to him and run ahead another few paces before repeating the routine.

One time, he fell, his legs gave in under him and he hit the gravel. It looked quite unpleasant, but it was clear nothing but his pride had been damaged. However much he liked to pretend he was fine, it was evident that he was not, for he remained seated where he had fallen for a few moments gathering enough strength to pull himself up again. For a moment, Mary contemplated going down to help him or sending someone, but that would have meant revealing someone had watched him, and she didn’t want to deprive herself of watching him and Isis.

The latter was already taking care of her friend anyway; circling him, she ensured he was fine and encouraged him to get up again, her tail flying through the air left and right and back again at great speed.

Nurse Isis was successful; he got up, bowed down somewhat to her and petted her head. Likely, he even said something else to her, but from so far away and through wall and glass, Mary couldn’t hear.

They returned quite soon after, and when they did, Mary decided to watch from the upstairs bannister.

He certainly had no luck, the Colonel, for as he came through the front door, Papa, off to meet someone in York, was on his way out.

Papa greeted the man with a military salute and the Colonel responded in the same manner; both men passed each other by, their faces not revealing any emotion- well, if Papa hadn’t bent down to Isis, who had greeted him, but then decided to stay with her new friend, which must have annoyed him greatly as he turned somewhat after the Colonel had passed him by to view him walk away with his dog.

Papa’s face told Mary all she needed to know. Until now, when the entire thing had just been a story told to him by Edith and Sybil, a little anecdote at most, he had been willing to overlook Isis’ supposed “betrayal” in favour of putting his foot down in front of Isobel, but Mary was fairly certain Isis would not be allowed to go anywhere near any soldier anymore.

“…soldiers. They cannot be trusted- they seduce your female servants, your daughters and apparently, your dog, too!”

“Oh Robert, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”, Mama smilingly tried to calm Papa’s temper that had not cooled down until the evening.

“You _are_ aware this is the year 1915 and not the setting of a tragic eighteenth-century folk song?”, Granny added her thoughts, more or less helpfully, to the conversation.

“And might I remind you Papa that you are a colonel, too? Maybe you should commend Isis for her good taste.”

“An honorary one, yes”, her father conceded, “but the fact remains that there is nothing more ill-bred than trying to steal the affections of someone else’s dog.”

Bestowing Granny with an unblinking glance he thought would convey he was the head of the household and impervious to his mother’s remarks, he added in conclusion: “And I’d much like to see that fellow _Over the Hills and Far Away_.”

He was sulking now- which was almost amusing to witness, had he not been so serious about it.

“He isn’t stealing her from you in any way”, Edith interfered, “she seeks him out.”

Edith, as always, made everything even more difficult, which happened to be the whole point of her existence, adding difficulty to other people’s lives. For now Isis was not lured away and persuaded by a strange soldier into liking him, now she was actively deserting their father- or at least that was how Mary thought her father would read her younger sister’s words.

Luckily, Mama, after a lifetime of practice in the art of handling Edith, managed to steer the ship away from the rocks it had sailed precariously close to and diverted the dinner party with the contents of a letter she had received from her Grandmama in America. Their Levinson-grandmother was quite, well, _different_ , which was easily explained by her nationality, a stereotypical Americanness displayed in an ostentatious manner that was somewhat irritating in polite English circles- as good luck would have it more irritating than a man befriending his host’s dog.

By ten o’clock, and after a few rounds of bridge, the conversation of earlier was quite forgotten, until Carson barged into the drawing room unannounced.

“Milord.”

His insistent tone and even more grave expression than was usual for him were not reassuring at all.

“Carson? What is it?”, Papa asked, somewhat taken aback that his butler should enter without even knocking.

“It is Isis, milord. She has not been seen for the last few hours-“

“It was that man, Simcoe, I knew it!”

Everyone was trying to keep the Earl of Grantham, usually so dignified, calm while colourful theories about the robbery of his beloved canine companion sputtered from his mouth like rainwater from a gothic gargoyle.

An hour later, the servants had searched the house and a few dauntless souls outdaring the chilly night had even ventured outside, towards the edge of the wood.

Downstairs, the muffled sounds of men talking were audible; their new housemates were not the quietest bunch to be sure.

Knowing she would not be able to sleep with the sounds of the men, the search and her own personal troubles all at once, Mary decided she would get a book from the library, now part of the hospital wing.

Having found what she was looking for (and naturally after having registered the book in her father’s list of library loans), she noticed the figure by the window, who had evidently drawn the curtains back and was drumming his fingers nervously against the glass.

Finding it somewhat rude, she decided to call him to order- after all Downton Abbey was still property of the Crawley family, whatever Cousin Isobel was thinking.

“Excuse me?”

He turned around to her in one sharp movement. It was the Colonel, she realised with an odd feeling in her belly.

“You are the Earl’s eldest daughter, yes?”, he asked curtly and as nervously as his fingers had betrayed in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

Mary had half a mind to remind him that as he had made note of himself, he was indeed talking to the daughter of an earl, which he ought reflect in his way of speaking to her (addressing her as “Lady Mary” or “milady” would be a good start on the way to eventual politeness), but he had already taken her silence for a yes.

“What of the dog, Isis? They say she is-“ he shrugged, obviously wishing to express that it was not known where Isis was at the moment.

“We don’t know yet”, Mary tried in a sympathetic tone, “don’t trouble yourself. Mr Branson, Mr Bates and Mr Carson have volunteered to accompany his lordship as searching party. They will bring her back home, if she doesn’t turn up by herself in the next half-hour.”

One ought never to upset a sick man- and as Isis was not known to run away, Mary was quite positive she would return by herself. Perhaps she had just hidden under a bed or sofa the maids had been too lazy to look under and slept peacefully while everyone was frantically searching for her.

Colonel Monto looked less certain.

“One naturally worries for- for a good friend”, he tried to explain himself to her in a strangely brittle, low tone, as if he felt ashamed for his feelings.

“We shall wait for them here”, Mary suggested and did not quite know why. Silently, they sat down at a Spartan wooden table with a half-played game of cards waiting to be finished on top of it and waited. Occasionally, a glance was exchanged, but nothing more.

By one o’clock, everyone had returned- cold, tired, without Isis and the chance that she was still in the house had almost melted to implausibility, too.

As the first footsteps became audible in the hall, the Colonel, supported by his cane, rose abruptly and marched, disregarding his sleeping comrades close by, towards them.

He wanted to turn his back on them seeing they hadn’t got her, but Papa was quicker.

“Where have you hidden her?”, he hissed and it took Bates and Carson to try and persuade him that launching himself at a sick man, one of the nation’s fighting heroes even, was not a good idea.

“I have done no wrong”, he retorted angrily and suddenly looked much taller and more dangerous than before.

“Isis is my friend”, he closed awkwardly, “one would never do bad things to one’s friends.”

He sounded like a child, helpless in a world of adults he did not understand. And with that he, dressed only in his pyjamas and a dressing gown, brushed purposefully past Papa’s shoulder and walked to the door.

“You’re mad, man!” Papa exclaimed, but the Colonel did not listen and simply walked on. Branson was the first to free himself of their mutual state of startled paralysis and was at the Colonel’s side within mere seconds, but as soon as he had touched his sleeve to pull him back, the Irishman was taken by the lapels by the much taller red-haired spectre and pushed away. The chauffeur was in no grave danger of injury from the shove, but the physical interaction cautioned everyone not to approach the obviously insane man. Under the observing eyes of their number, he retrieved his stick that had fallen to the ground during his brief altercation with Branson and simply walked out into the icy October night.

 

By morning, after a night of ill rest for everyone, both Isis and the Colonel remained missing. Clarkson had declared it likely he had frozen to death already, judging by the low temperatures and his weak constitution.

Edith had volunteered to drive up and down the most frequented roads in the area looking for Isis (or, rather her corpse in case she had been hit by a car or cart- but of course nobody spoke this truth out loud in front of Papa) as Branson would be needed searching the woods by daylight, Sybil was needed at Clarkson’s side, leaving only her and Mama.

In the afternoon, Edith had returned without a dead dog on the backseat, nobody in the village had seen Lord Grantham’s best friend or a pale ginger man in a dressing-gown (a circumstance that didn’t quite reassure the inhabitants) and in the portion of the woods the male servants, some tenants and a few village-boys promised a shilling each had been able to search, no sign of the Colonel or Isis was to be found.

At sundown, it was agreed that come the next morning, Papa would go to York and get the police involved. A man was missing after all, a man who was a guest at Downton- after Mr Pamuk, the house could certainly not afford another scandal involving a guest and perhaps Papa hoped, the police would aid him find Isis once they were done with the Colonel.

“It was all for naught”, he said, his voice quite soft with emotion. In his hands, he held Isis’ leash, as if holding something belonging to her and thinking of her at the same time would bring her back. It was childish superstition to be sure, but there was little else remaining for Papa to keep believing in the way things looked.

The faraway heavy thud of a door closing made him raise his head.

“Was that the front door?”, he asked, to which everyone agreed. “Who is this?”

Irritated, he rose to go and see.

“My dear Lord!”

The sudden exclamation alerted everyone who had been part of the search for Isis that had set up headquarters in the remaining (small) library, alerted everyone and one after another, they followed Papa’s voice to the entrance hall.

In the electric light stood the Colonel, shivering, even paler than before, dead leaves and sticks all over his clothes and in his hair looking very tired.

Mary guessed rightly that the only thing holding him up was his willpower. His stick was gone, too, obviously discarded because in his arms he held-

“Isis!”

Papa immediately ripped her from the arms of her saviour, leaving the latter look quite bereft and vulnerable.

“Be careful”, he advised in a shaky voice, “she hurt her paws. She must have chased something, a small animal perhaps, and fell down a steep ravine into some brambles. That is where I found her. It took me a while to get back- my leg, you see, is not quite healed-up just yet.”

It was only then Mary noticed his hands looked quite cut-up, bleeding and dirty and he held his left leg awkwardly in a position obviously meant to shift his weight onto his good leg.

For the moment, Papa was occupied with his darling pet and seemed to not even notice the Colonel at all, which caused Mary to feel sorry for him.

“Come”, she led him back to his accustomed bed, “I will have something hot send up for you. Tea and some leftovers from dinner perhaps. You have earned it.”

Clarkson had gone home half an hour earlier and so all medical care fell to Sybil, who disinfected and bandaged best as she could, doing her best to mend man and dog.

Everyone was up now, all the other officers and even the servants not involved in the search, wishing to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Gawking, they stood around the Colonel, who was easily persuaded to change into clean and dry clothes and immediately put to bed by Sybil after having treated his injuries. Contrary to how he had treated Branson, he was very biddable and obliging with her.

At last, the commotion died down a bit, leaving only the Colonel, the family and some immediate bed-neighbours as audience.

“I- I think I owe you my thanks”, Papa stuttered at long last. “You have saved my Isis. I am eternally grateful and apologise for having suspected you of her kidnapping when you have so willingly suffered great personal injury to retrieve her. That was ungentlemanly of me. Is there anything I could do for you in return?”

“Can she stay, tonight only?”, the Colonel asked. Of everything he could have wanted or asked from Papa, being with Isis was the only thing he craved. Expectantly, his blue eyes looked up at Papa.

“Permission granted, Colonel”, Papa answered without thinking and lifted Isis, who had also been treated by Sybil before the vet would come and have a look at her tomorrow onto the covers.

Isis looked gratefully at her owner, as if to acknowledge his kindness and show him she still loved him, even if she felt needed elsewhere for the moment.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her and stroked her back while Isis shuffled to make herself comfortable, laying her head trustingly down on his chest.

Even Papa looked a little bit touched when ten minutes later, they risked another glance at the surprise friends, both asleep. Colonel Simcoe’s lips were curled into a faint, content smile that gave Mary confidence he would survive his recklessness and even Isis seemed to smile in her sleep, but that was likely a trick of the light.

**Author's Note:**

> "The She-Wolf of France" refers to Isabella of France, Queen of England (1295-1358) who is sometimes accused of having had her husband Edward II murdered in a gruesome manner in order to secure the throne for her son (Edward III) with the intention of influencing the young king to further her own agenda.
> 
> Mary's inability to remember names of people she doesn't really like or care about was inspired by the several times she couldn't recall the name of Reggie Swire's first heir (the one who vanished in India) and made something funny-sounding up instead.
> 
> “There is nothing more ill-bred than trying to steal the affections of someone else’s dog.”- quote from Robert, season five I think. In the context of Cora’s love interest being nice to Isis.


End file.
